^ 


^idk  Maldioin  Clienery 


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At  Vesper  Time 

Poems 


By 
Ruth  Baldwin  Chenery 


Le  coeur  a  ses  raisons  que  la  raison   ne    connait    point. 

Pascal. 


G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons 

New  York  and  London 

Zbc  Ifcnfcfterboctier   ipress 

1917 


\C 


(}^ 


Copyright,   191 7 

BY 

RUTH    BALDWIN    CHENERY 


Ube  Itnfcberbocfter  Pvcbb,  'Dew  H^ork 


XTo 
WINTHROP  AND  ALICE 


CONTENTS 

PAGB 

Man I 

Woman 2 

Marcus  Aurelius 3 

When  Beatrice  Looked  on  Dante      ...  4 

Saint  Augustine 5 

Gladstone         .......  6 

Abraham  Lincoln 8 

Abraham  Lincoln 9 

James  A.  Garfield 10 

William  McKinley 11 

Emerson 12 

Nathaniel  Hawthorne 13 

Longfellow 14 

Edward  Everett  Hale 15 

Peary 16 

Shakespeare 17 

Wordsworth 18 

Keats 19 

Carlyle 20 

Tennyson 21 

On  Tennyson's  "  In  Memoriam  "          .         .         .  22 

Tennyson  on  His  own  "In  Memoriam"       .         .  23 

Dickens    .        ,        , 24 

V 


vi  Contents 

»A6B 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson 25 

Ibsen 26 

Zola 37 

Cyrano  De  Bergerac 28 

To  Joseph  Jefferson 29 

Jeanne  D'Arc 31 

Louis  XVI 32 

Marie  Antoinette 33 

Charlotte  Corday  Looking  upon  Marat    .         .  34 

Eugenie  de  Gu^rin 36 

Harriet  Beecher  Stowe 37 

Lucy  Stone 38 

Julia  Ward  Howe 39 

Charlotte  Bronte    .         .         .         .         .         .40 

Emily  Bronte 41 

Constance  Fenimore  Woolson           ...  42 

To  Lady  Gregory 43 

The  Madonna  of  the  Chair     ....  44 

To  M.  F.  W.  H. 45 

To  E.  M.  L .         .46 

Courage 47 

A  Greeting  to  Browning  Lovers     ...  48 

Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning  ....  49 
On  the  Bronze  Clasped  Hands  of  Robert  and 

Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning  .  .  .51 
Sonnet  on  Browning's  Masterpiece  "The  Ring 

AND  THE  Book" 52 

Browning  said  of  "The  Ring  and  the  Book": 

"  It  lives,  if  precious  be  the  soul  of  man 

toman"      ,        .        r        ,        ,        ,        ,  53 


Contents 


Vll 


The  Magdalen  .... 

To  A  Woman  Seen  on  the  Street 

The  Wings  of  Night  are  Spread 

In  the  Evening  of  Life 

Searching  for  God   . 

"Thy  Will  be  Done" 

The  Lyre 

The  Father-Heart 

My  Tasks 

The  Home 

Truth 

Faith 

Love 

Hope 

Beyond  the  Veil 

Sorrow  Asleep 

Thou  Knowest 

Comrades  . 

In  the  Trolley  Car 

In  a  Music  Hall 

Mount  Victoria  at  Sunrise 

Washington  University  at  Sunset 

Autumn  Twilight 

Late  Autumn    . 

The  Hate  of  Hate   . 

Call  me  not  yet 

"Only  the  Best  of  Life" 

"The  Lusitania" 

Russia        .... 

At  Last    .        »        ,        , 


At  Vesper  Time 


MAN 


What  though  from  something  even  base  I  sprang, 

Some  ape-like  figure  of  a  primal  age, 

Not  even  the  strong  thrall  of  heritage, 

Could  bind  me,  when  a  thrilling  voice  outrang; 

*'Go,   cleave  thy  way,   nor  fear   the  serpent's 

fang. 
Not  even  subtle  Death;  for  thou  shalt  wage 
A  noble  strife,  and  rise  from  stage  to  stage. 
Till  reason  sway  thee.*'     So  the  summons  rang! 
And  I  obeyed;  and  woman  at  my  side, 
Her  tresses  blown  against  me,  fared  with  me 
At  feast  or  famine,  and  upon  her  knees 
Tended  our  young;  and  we,  awed  by  the  wide, 
Star-lighted  night,  found  God,  and  shaped  our 

plea: 
**Let  mighty  Love  outlast  the  stars  and  seas!" 


WOMAN 

In  that  dark  cave,  I  heard  my  firstling's  cry, 
And  hushed  him  on  my  breast,  until  he  came, 
My  lord  the  hunter,  that  could  kill  or  tame 
The  wild  things  of  the  wood,  that  crouch  or  fly; 
He  snatched  the  fish  from  water,  and  could  ply 
His  magic  with  a  stone  and  bid  a  flame 
Make  his  feast  ready.     Oh !  in  pride,  not  shame, 
I  gave  the  child  to  him;  I  knew  not  why. 
And  so  down  through  the  ages  have  I  borne 
This  miracle  of  life,  defying  death, 
So  that  my  woman's  love  might  take  this  fonn; 
God  of  the  star-lit  Night!  God  of  the  Morn! 
I  have  no  joy  like  watching  that  light  breath 
Heave  in  the  tiny  chest,  after  the  storm! 


MARCUS  AURELIUS 

How  strange  it  seems  that  thou  shouldst  speak 

to  us 
Far  down  the  centuries;  and  that  thy  voice, 
August  and  bland,  despite  the  tumult  wild 
Of  warring  years,  should  still  go  sounding  on! 
So  may  it  sound  forever !     Like  a  bell 
That  calls  to  prayer,  it  bids  us  turn  away 
From  smoothest  sophistries  that  hem  us  in, 
To  gaze  like  thee,  with  mild  and  faithful  eyes, 
On  Truth  in  her  majestic  purity. 


WHEN  BEATRICE  LOOKED  ON  DANTE 

When  Beatrice  looked  on  Dante  from  afar, 
Down   from    the    wide    and    smiling   fields   of 

heaven, 
And  she  beheld  him  sitting  with  wan  cheek 
And  brows  austere,  judging  the  souls  of  men, 
Haling  those  great  ones  down  to  deepest  hell, 
And  dooming  with  a  curse  that  sorrowing  pair 
To  whirl  through  the  dim  space  an  endless  age, 
I  think  she  mused:  **0  Dante,  much  I  grieve 
That  thou  shouldst  lade  thyself  with  heavy  cares. 
That  only  the  great  heart  of  God  may  carry; 
Oh,  when  I  see  thee  weigh  thy  brother's  soul 
In  thy  frail  balance,  and  with  look  intense 
Mete  out  his  weary  doom  and  seal  his  fate, 
But  that  I  have  forgotten  how  to  weep, 
My  tears  would  fall!*' 


SAINT  AUGUSTINE 

Saint  Augustine !  above  the  sons  of  men 

Of  thine  own  time,  thou  seemest  still  to  tower, 

Strong  and  invincible;  and  yet  the  power 

That  made  thee  king  among  thy  fellows,  when 

A  will  of  adamant  or  fire-tipped  pen 

Was  needed,  lay  slumbering  through  the  flower 

Of  aimless,  misspent  youth,  a  wasted  dower 

Of  golden  days,  never  to  come  again. 

When  that  diviner  self  within  thee  woke, 

It  cast  the  dreamer  out,  and  unbeguiled. 

Clear-sighted,  thou  didst  leave  the  clod 

And  mire  forever,  and  a  prophet  spoke 

From  out  thy  lips  unto  the  world — defiled, 

Thou  hadst  become  a  very  son  of  God. 


GLADSTONE 
May  19,  i8p8 

Gladstone  is  dead,  and  English  hearts  beat  low 
In  their  thick-peopled  isles  with  sense  of  loss; 
In  thronging  cities,  and  in  dim  retreats 
Of  cloistered  scholars,  falls  alike  the  shade 
Grief  casts  on  kindred  brows;  and  flashed  afar, 
The  solemn  message  smites  upon  the  soul 
Of  all  of  English  blood  on  the  wide  earth — 
With  not  less  pain  on  homeward  looking  men 
That  serve  in  that  broad  empire  of  the  East, 
And  them  that  build  a  younger  England  there, 
Surged  round  by  the  Australian  seas. 
And  we  thine  Anglo-Saxon  kinsmen  sigh. 
And  look  with  reverent  eyes  upon  thy  grief — 
We,  all  unused  to  clang  of  arms,  so  fain 
To  sit  and  brood  in  peace,  must  lift  the  shield, 
And  draw  the  sword  for  them  that  strive  in  vain. 
Gladstone,  thou  dost  not  know,  but  not  the  less 
We  gather  comfort  and  remember  yet 
Thy  ringing  counsel,  when  the  subtle  Turk 
6 


At  Vesper  Time  7 

Ground  the  Armenian  faces  in  the  dust. 
"England,"  thou  criedst,  '* redress  this  bloody 

wrong; 
Arise  and  act,  or  from  the  mother-tongue 
Blot  out  the  name  of  honor!*' 


ABRAHAM  LINCOLN 
Died  April  15,  1865 

Go  carve  enduring  marbles  with  his  name, 
Who  bore  the  martyr*s  palm  branch  in  his 
prime, 
But  let  some  deathless  song  preserve  his  fame, 
When  these  shall  crumble  in  the  wastes  of 
time. 


ABRAHAM  LINCOLN 

**New  birth  of  our  new  soil,  the  first  American." 
Lowell's  Commemoration  Ode. 

Great-hearted  Man,  how  bold  are  they  that  dare 

To  wind  a  newer  laurel  for  thy  name, 

To  heap  up  praise  upon  thy  full-grown  fame, 

Or  round  an  aureole  for  thy  silvered  hair; 

For  one  immortal  ode  beyond  compare, 

Recites  thy  worth  in  words  of  such  acclaim, 

That  we  no  other  praise  have  power  to  frame, 

0,  Bearer  of  a  nation's  grief  and  care. 

But  we  that  may  not  praise,  may  love  thee  yet, 

As  well  as  he  that  sang  the  verse  sublime, 

For  thou  wert  ours,  0  Heart,  the  nation's  stay, 

Thou  Sage  and  Martyr!  see,  our  eyes  are  wet 

With  tears  of  grateful  pride,  that  in  our  time 

A  man  so  god-like,  walked  our  common  way. 


JAMES  A.  GARFIELD 
Died  September  19,  1881 

Thou,  too,  O  Martyr,  unto  thee  shall  rise 
The  incense,  Praise  shall  offer  to  the  few, 

Who  wait  unwelcome  Death,  with  fearless  eyes, 
When  life  is  sweetest  and  when  fame  is  new. 


10 


WILLIAM  McKINLEY 
Died  September  14,  1901 

And  thou,  O  gentle  and  O  knightly  Soul! 

No  sudden  treachery  could  draw  thee  down 
To  render  hate  for  hate;  thy  dying  dole 

Of  mercy  is  not  least  of  thy  renown. 


EMERSON 

Great  men  shall  praise,  with  words  that  may 

endure, 
This  Seer-Scholar,  who  from  all  the  lore 
Of  ancient  races  drew  the  pith  and  strength, 
And  fused  it  with  his  own  for  human  needs ; 
But  if  he  hear  their  praise,  will  not  his  smile, 
Wise  and  half-sad,  forbid  their  eulogy? 
Let  his  great  thoughts  enlarge  a  nation's  life, 
And  let  the  virile  music  of  his  verse 
Awake  its  slumbering  purpose  into  deeds ! 
Be  this  his  praise  and  immortality. 


12 


NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE 

Hawthorne,  I  would  upon  thy  magic  page 
That  men  might   linger  long   and,    pond'ring, 

find 
A  knowledge  that  might  help  them  with  their 

kind, 
And  so  be  gentler  for  thy  sake ;  the  age 
Doth  need  thy  potent  teaching,  poet-sage. 
Thou  knewest  all  the  tumult  in  the  mind, 
When  the  vexed  soul  is  torn  with  motions  blind 
That  beat  against  the  will,  in  helpless  rage. 
The  thoughts  of  children  oped  before  thy  look 
Like  snowy  flowers  that  the  Spring  meadows 

star; 
Thou  knew*st  how  Vestals  pray,  and  heard'st 

how  loud 
The  heart  of  manhood  beats,  that  cannot  brook 
To  stand  and  wait,  when  Hope  soars  high  and 

far, 
Like  some  swift  bird  that  seek§  th^  dazzling 

cloud, 


LONGFELLOW 

Thy  songs,  belovM  Bard,  are  household  words; 
Our  daily  task  hath  been  enriched  by  thee 
With  lovely  phrases  and  the  minstrelsy, 
That  sings  despite  the  care  that  life  engirds, 
Of  that  green  Arcady,  and  flocks  and  herds; 
And  that  sweet  Lady  with  the  Lamp  shall  be 
Our  shining  light;  and  bless&d  they  that  see 
A  gospel  in  Saint  Francis  and  the  birds, 
But  in  thy  brook-like  measures'  limpid  flow. 
The  singer  finds  his  joy,  and  his  despair, 
So  simple  and  so  perfect  is  thine  art; 
And  only  poets  like  to  thee  may  show 
The  sonnet's  power  to  mount  a  spirit-stair. 
And  reach  a  height  that  overwhelms  the  heart. 


H 


EDV/ARD  EVERETT  HALE 

Thou,  Leader  among  men !  what  hast  thou  done, 
That  often  at  the  mention  of  thy  name 
In  a  far  land,  strangers  strike  hands  and  claim 
A  common  brotherhood?     Their  pulses  run 
In  loyal  rhythms  beneath  the  foreign  sun; 
And  love  of  country,  springing  like  a  flame, 
Thrills  warm  at  heart  and  lip,  and  her  dear  fame 
Wakes  manly  joy  and  moves  them  both  as  one. 
So  hast  thou  quickened  patriot  love  and  pride; 
And  greater  works  than  this  thy  hand  hath 

wrought, 
When  thou  hast  lifted,  stained  with  self  and  sin, 
Sad  penitents,  while  on  the  other  side 
The  stately  Pharisee,  without  a  thought, 
Left  thee  alone  to  bring  the  kingdom  in. 


15 


PEARY 

What  lured  thee  forth,  brave  spirit,  for  no  gain 
In  heaped  up  gold  awaited  thee  at  end 
Of  the  long  toil  that  ever  must  contend 
With  Nature  at  her  sternest,  on  the  main 
Of  stormy  waters  lashed  with  frozen  rain, 
Tossing  by  night,  while  bitter  winds  descend ; 
Or  toiling  over  ice  fields,  that  extend 
Their  cruel  spaces,  plain  on  endless  plain. 
Some  strong  heroic  impulse  led  thee  on. 
Some  high  disdain  of  softness  and  of  ease, 
Steeled  all  thy  nerves  and  breathed  within  thy 

soul; 
God  moved  on  that  high  mood  and  all  was  won ; 
He  urged  thee  on,  o*er  hungry  lands  and  seas. 
Till  the  cold,  secret  North,  revealed  the  pole. 


i6 


SHAKESPEARE 

Shakespeare,  thy  mighty  name  hath  power  to  fill 
The  mind  with  images  of  men  that  strive 
Or  love,  or  quarrel;  and  thou  mak'st  alive 
Those  gorgeous  kings  and  queens  of  old,  until 
We  seem  the  dream ;  thy  midnight  fairies  still 
Dance  light,  or  steal  the  honey  from  the  hive; 
Deep  forests  see  sweet  Rosalind  arrive. 
With  gesture  gay,  and  laugh  like  mountain  rill. 
Thou  art  not  England's  Shakespeare,  thou  art 

ours — 
The  World's — forever  young,  defying  age; 
Poets  are  the  proud  trumpet  of  thy  name. 
And  sun  them  at  the  zenith  of  thy  powers; 
Imperial  Rome  looms  greater  for  thy  page ; 
Caesar  will  live  the  longer  in  thy  fame. 


17 


WORDSWORTH 

**The  Poet,  gentle  creature, 
Hath  like  the  lover  his  unruly  times, 
His  fits  when  he  is  neither  sick  nor  well." 

The  Prelude, 

Poet  benign,  with  floating  silver  hair, 
And  mien  so  full  of  conscious  dignity. 
As  one  bom  to  the  realm  of  Poesy, 
Sweeping  the  lyre  to  song  that  may  compare 
With  Milton's  own,  when  on  the  charmed  air 
He  breathed  the  sweet  and  solemn  mystery 
Of  strains  not  all  of  earth,  part  heavenly. 
Half  music  and  half  thought,  in  fusion  rare. 
But,  O  dear  Poet,  when  the  prose  hours  came. 
You  bade  them  welcome,  and  would  not  perceive 
That  the  Pierian  Spring  had  ceased  to  flow; 
While  Shelley  murmured  at  thy  Muse's  fame, 
Lo!  all  at  once,  thy  sky-born  thoughts  would 

weave 
New   spells,    and   winds   from   high   Parnassus 

blow. 


i8 


KEATS 

Thou  Lover  of  all  beauty,  and  so  fain 

To  find  it  in  a  rosy  Hebe-face; 

Or  in  the  revels  on  a  Grecian  vase; 

Or  where  some  haunting  music  must  complain ; 

Or  in  Endymion,  soaring  to  the  plain 

Where  Phoebe  floats  in  her  immortal  grace; 

Or  in  the  shadows  of  some  wooded  place, 

Where  Saturn  might  have  kept  his  ancient  reign. 

And  yet,  although  thy  being  could  respond 

So  utterly  to  these,  the  joys  of  sense, 

A  deeper  thought  would  all  thy  mind  endue. 

Finding  an  inner  meaning  far  beyond; 

Holding  with  Goethe,  as  we  all  must  hence. 

That  ** nothing  but  the  beautiful  is  true." 


19 


CARLYLE 

Heroic  Carlyle,  on  thy  furrowed  brow, 
Fame  lays  her  cool  hand  in  all  tenderness; 
She  knows  thee  now,  and  gladly  must  confess 
The  greatness  that  could  never  cringe  or  bow 
To  power  or  place;  and  yet,  that  could  allow 
To  merit,  linked  with  place  and  power,  no  less 
Than  praise;  Fame  greets  thee  now  and  would 

redress 
The  old  blind  judgments  she  must  disavow. 
Thou  couldst  not  look  upon  the  storied  past 
As  one  unmoved;  we  feel  thy  man's  heart  beat 
With  scorn,  or  sympathy;  but  take  thy  rest; 
Thou  hast  lived  all  too  much  in  labors  vast, 
In  searching  out  world-secrets;  now  how  sweet' 
To  sleep  indeed;  God's  peace  within  thy  breast. 


$0 


TENNYSON 

January  jiy  i8go 

Poet,  thy  songs  from  out  the  years  come  down 
Laden  with  music  of  the  brook  and  lea, 
With  whispers  of  the  leaves  on  woodland  tree. 
With  notes  of  lark  and  mavis,  sounds  that  crown 
The    Maytime,     while     their     happy    clamors 

drown 
The  murmurs  of  the  distant,  glimmering  sea; 
And  myriad  voices  rise,  with  minstrelsy 
Of  Arthur's  court,  met  in  the  forest  brown. 
And  now,  I  hear  to  silver  clarion  blown 
Thy  lay  of  England's  banner  in  the  East; 
But  most  thy  lofty  song  of  Love  and  Death 
Hath  stirred  the  pulse,   and  still  its  thrilling 

tone 
Shall    sound    through    forward    time,    a    voice 

released. 
And  souls  to  be  shall  quicken  at  its  breath. 


21 


ON  TENNYSON'S  "IN  MEMORIAM" 

Above  the  murmur  of  thy  bitter  sighs, 

And  those  keen  cries  of  grief  wrung  from  the 

soul, 
I  hear  the  music  of  thy  prelude  roll 
To  that  *' Strong  Son  of  God"  the  Heavenly- 
Wise  ; 
In  all  thy  musings  under  sombre  skies, 
And  in  thy  longings,  passionate  with  pain. 
It  sounds  again  in  pathos  of  refrain, 
More  subtly  than  soft  clouds  of  incense  rise. 
In  all  the  tender  hymning  of  thy  love. 
Thy  splendid  strivings  after  Faith  that  pries 
Through  Nature,  weary  of  her  stony  face, 
The   rhythms   of   thy   deep   measures   onward 

move 
To  that  full  harmony  that  underlies 
The  deepest  mysteries  of  time  and  space. 


22 


TENNYSON  ON   HIS  OWN 
"IN  MEMORIAM" 

"Ere  these  have  clothed  their  branchy  bowers 
With  fifty  Mays,  thy  songs  are  vain." 

The  English  Oaks  have  '*  clothed  their  branchy 

bowers" 
For  more  than  fifty  Mays,  and  yet  thy  songs 
Live  on,  0  Poet,  for  to  them  belongs 
Ascetic  grace,  as  pure  as  Alpine  flowers ; 
And  that  immortal  grief  of  thine  still  showers 
With  blessing  of  immortal  words,  the  throngs 
That  still  their  weeping,  while  their  spirit  longs 
For  faith  like  thine,  that  over  doubt  still  towers. 
The  oaks  shall  wither,  and  their  green  shall  be 
An  ancient  memory,  yet  no  eclipse 
Shall  fall  upon  thy  noblest  and  thy  best : 
English  as  Nelson !  with  a  soul  as  free, 
Master  of  poesy,  as  he  of  ships. 
Thy  fame,  like  his,  writ  in  the  English  breast! 


•3 


DICKENS 

Upon  the  beaten  road  of  life  we  fare, 
Sometimes  in  glorious  sunshine,  and  again, 
Gazing  through   the   thick  mist   of  tears;  but 

men 
Have  found  a  friend  in  thee,  one  who  will  share 
Their  daily  joys  and  sorrows,  and  will  dare 
To  fling  the  gauntlet,  and  take  up  the  pen, 
Attacking  coward  wrong,  in  thieving  den, 
Or  cruel  school,  or  Pharisaic  prayer. 

But  in  thy  gentler  aspects,  thou  hast  taught 
How  much  of  steadfast  faith  and  love  hold  fast 
Within  the  breasts  of  men,  and  thou  hast  shown 
To  us  our  foibles,  not  concealing  aught; 
We  wince  at  first,  then  smile,  and  at  the  last, 
Yield  to  Homeric  laughter  like  thine  own. 


»4 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 

Hast  thou  forgotten,  Master,  all  the  play 

Of  the  old  magic  in  that  busy  brain, 

That  wove  with  subtle  warp  and  woof,  a  train 

Of  fancies  weird,  or  jocund  as  the  day? 

Hast  thou  forgotten  all  the  mystic  sway 

Of  Poesy,  that  sings  a  deep  refrain. 

For  "love  of  lovely  words?"     Oh,  all  in  vain! 

No  answer  cometh,  though  we  long  delay. 

Yet  though  these  gracious  gifts  be  overpast, 

Thou  canst  not  die;  for  greater  far  than  these 

Was  that  strong  soul  of  thine  that  swept  deceit 

From  out  thy  path,    and  turned  thee  first  and 

last, 
With  faith  that  shamed  the  bigot,  to  the  seas. 
Or  lands,  where  God  might  lead  thy  weary  feet. 


25 


IBSEN 

Like  some  old  Viking,  thou,  that  from  the  prow 
Of  his  rude  sea  craft  gazed  across  the  main, 
Choosing  whom  he  should  conquer;  yet  again 
He  lives  in  thee,  and  doth  with  power  endow 
To  shake  not  lands,  but  souls,  that  can  but  bow 
To  thy  stem  buffetings,  for  thou  art  fain. 
Like  some  relentless  fate,  scorning  at  pain. 
To  brand  mankind  upon  the  breast  and  brow. 
Yet  as  thy  fiords  lie  gleaming  in  the  sun. 
When  the  Norwegian  summer  spreads  its  bloom 
After  the  winter,  so  ofttimes,  thy  page 
Shimmers  with  a  poetic  beauty,  won 
From  inspiration  that  casts  out  the  gloom, 
And  sends  forth  rays  to  last  from  age  to  age. 


ZOLA 

Thy  books,  men  say,  are  terrible  and  dark, 
Thronging  with  sullen  shapes  of  sin,  that  haunt 
The  chambers  of  the  brain,  with  power  to  daunt 
The  stoutest  heart;  I  know  not,  I  but  mark 
Thy  glorious  deed,  thy  courage  sheer  and  stark, 
In  that  dread  time,  when  Dreyfus,  worn  and 

gaunt, 
Endured  on  that  lone  isle  a  nation's  taunt. 
Until  life  dwindled  to  a  flickering  spark. 
Then,  O  thou  great  Accuser !  then  didst  thou 
Stand  up  in  wrath,  defying  Martial  Pride 
And  those  smooth  Clerics;  in  thy  bold  advance, 
Hurling  the  truth,  making  a  mighty  vow 
To  spend  thyself  for  him,  and  breast  the  tide 
Of  raging  hate,  to  wipe  a  stain  from  France. 


27 


CYRANO  DE  BERGERAC 

No  page  of  drama,  no,  not  Shakespeare's  own, 

Projects  a  bolder  form  and  face  than  thine ; 

No  prouder  soul  e'er  heard  the  voice  divine 

Of  Poesy,  when  In  her  trumpet  tone 

She  calls  to  gallant  deeds;  but  not  alone 

To  arms  she  called,  she  waked  that  heart  of 

thine 
To  deathless  love,  yet  bade  thee  to  resign 
All  hope;  but  breathing  fervent  line  on  line, 
You  won  a  lover's  prayer,  but  not  thine  own — 
And  yet,  ah  yet,  my  noble  Gascon!  thou, 
Hating  the  false,  and  scorning  compromise, 
Died'st  playing  out  a  part,  nor  let  thine  own 
High  nature,  writ  upon  that  suff 'ring  brow, 
Claim  its  own  due,  till  in  that  fierce  surprise 
Where  hand  to  hand  with  Death,  thou  fought 'st 

alone. 


28 


TO  JOSEPH  JEFFERSON 

It  must  be  sweet  to  feel  thy  power, 
To  know  that  thousands  wait  to  greet 

Thy  coming,  with  the  joyous  shower 
Of  welcome  thou  dost  always  meet. 

But  when  thou  speakest,  silence  falls 
On  that  great  throng,  that  not  one  word 

Of  thine  be  wasted;  mute  the  walls 
That  echoed  when  the  greeting  stirred. 

Then  wave-like,  laughter  falls  and  flows. 
And  lightly  care  is  blown  away; 

While  all  the  spirit  inly  glows; 
Life  is  forgotten  in  the  play. 

Ah  then!  the  pathos  of  thine  air, 
The  magic  of  thy  voice,  shall  change 

The  subtle  spell  and  waken  there, 
In  deeper  hearts,  a  tremor  strange, 
29 


30  At  Vesper  Time 

For  one  shall  lift  a  deathless  song, 
And  one  shall  poise  his  Hermes  fair, 

And  one  shall  live  to  trample  wrong, 
And  one  shall  offer  winged  prayer. 

But  thou,  0  Player,  hast  the  grace  • 
To  touch  and  teach  the  human  heart. 

God's  love  be  with  thee  and  thy  race, 
And  may  it  nevermore  depart! 

Then  sweet  indeed  shall  rest  be  found 
Beneath  thy  trees  and  swaying  vines, 

Lulled  by  the  wave  and  the  dear  sound 
Of  children's  voices  in  the  pines. 


JEANNE  D'ARC 

A  peasant  maid !  she  led  her  flock  of  sheep 
Along  the  sunny  pastures  to  the  stream, 
Moving  her  lips  in  prayer  as  in  a  dream, 
Wrapped  in  a  mystery  profound  and  deep, 
Where  heavenly  voices  call  her  to  a  steep 
And  rugged  path,  on  which  she  sees  a  gleam 
Of  light  ineffable;  so  shall  it  beam^ 
When  death  shall  close  those  virgin  eyes  in  sleep. 
But,  oh,  before  that  longed-for  rest  shall  come, 
What  pleadings,  what  farewells,  what  fiery  zeal, 
What  noise  of  armies,  and  what  victor  cries 
Shall  shake  her  soul !  nor  can  betrayal  numb 
So  great  a  faith,  that  for  her  country's  weal 
Spent  in  the  martyr's  flame  its  last  low  sighs. 


31 


LOUIS  XVI 

O  hapless  Louis !  in  thy  veins  there  ran 
The  blood  of  sixty  kings,  yet  France  was  loth 
To  do  thee  homage ;  court  and  people  both 
Fell  from  thee,  and  a  dark,  sinister  ban 
Lay  on  thy  royal  head,  0  wretched  man ! 
Thou  and  thy  fathers  broke  the  kingly  oath, 
And  cruel  hunger  made  the  people  wroth, 
And  passion  rose  like  flame  the  wind  doth  fan. 
And  yet,  O  blind  and  halting  as  thou  wert, 
Not  knowing  if  to  stay,  or  if  to  flee. 
When  danger  did  but  threaten,  at  the  last. 
When  the  loud  drums  preceding  thee  proclaimed 
Thy  death  at  hand,  his  spirit  lived  in  thee — 
Saint  Louis  the  Crusader  was  not  shamed. 


MARIE  ANTOINETTE 

Thou  never  to  the  heart  of  France  wast  dear; 
An  alien  woman  from  the  Austrian  stem 
The  people  saw  in  thee;  no  deep-cut  gem 
That  glittered  on  thy  bosom,  might  appear 
More  cold  to  them  than  thou;  with  doubtful 

sneer 
Mute  masses  at  thy  coming  did  contemn, 
With  silence,  more  than  speech ;  and  naught  to 

them, 
Thy  sovereign  grace,  or  thy  most  bitter  tear. 
0  Beauteous  One  to  perish  in  thy  prime ! 
But  to  the  scaffold  thou  didst  walk  in  pride, 
Trampling  the  griefs  that  whitened  ere  the  years, 
Thy  queenly  head;  sheer  courage,  like  a  tide. 
Rose  in  thy  breast,  so  high  and  so  sublime, 
Even  yet  our  hearts  dilate,  too  proud  for  tears. 


33 


CHARLOTTE   CORDAY   LOOKING  UPON 
MARAT 

O  piteous  Charlotte,  who  shall  shrive 
Thy  soul  from  this  dark  stain? 

Wash  off  this  plague-spot !  lest  it  rive 
Asunder  thought  and  brain ! 

For  this  is  blood  on  thy  slight  hand, 

And  on  the  milk-white  fold 
Across  thy  breast,  and  this  blue  band, 

That  round  thy  hair  was  rolled. 

Unknit  thy  brows  from  that  dull  stare. 

Fixed  in  a  marble  calm ! 
For  he  is  dead,  thy  victim  there, 

Beyond  all  help  or  harm. 

Marat  is  dead!  see  the  great  hands 

Relax;  the  fierce  head  falls; 
He  neither  hears  nor  understands, 

Though  someone  knocks  and  calls. 
34 


At  Vesper  Time  35 

Knot  up  thy  hair;  it  falls  abroad, 

A  shower  of  golden  brown, 
Straighten  thy  bodice;  have  a  care. 

Ere  they  shall  fling  thee  down, 

And  call  thee  ** murderess,**  patriot  maid; 

They  rage  without  the  door ! 
It  yields!  but  thou  art  not  afraid — 

Marat  fears  death  no  more. 

O  piteous  Charlotte,  on  thy  breast 

Forever  lies  this  brand  : 
*'I  am  of  those  who  dare  to  wrest 

God's  judgments  from  his  hand.'* 


EUGENIE  DE  GUERIN 

Gentle  and  gracious  Spirit,  come  again! 

Be  with  us  as  we  read  thy  pages  rare, 

While  we  fling  by  the  great  world*s  numbing 

care. 
And  on  the  casement  beats  the  summer  rain. 
Unveil  to  us  the  mystic's  joy  and  pain, 
O  pure  and  fervent  soul,  and  let  us  share, 
Though  all  unmeet,  thy  thought,  thy  winged 

prayer; 
Humble  and  bless  our  spirits,  cold  and  vain. 
Blue  skies  of  Languedoc  arch  high  and  deep, 
As  hand  in  hand  with  thee,  through  meadows 

fair, 
Hearing  thy  vibrant  voice,  we  seem  to  stray; 
We  shut  the  book  and  yet  the  illusion  keep — 
A  woman  fit  to  grace  a  court,  or  wear 
The  halo  of  a  saint  has  passed  our  way. 


HARRIET  BEECHER  STOWE 

Unto  thy  faithful  heart  the  summons  came 

As  unto  John  in  Patmos,  when  so  keen 

The  call  came  to  thee,  "Write  what  thou  hast 

seen; 
Go,  waken  men  that  slumber,  to  the  blame 
That   dims   the   splendor    of    their    country^s 

name, 
And  makes  of  her  a  by-word,  for  I  mean 
To  weigh  them  in  the  balance,  and  between 
Their  brows  to  set  the  signet  of  their  shame/' 
0  Woman-Seer !  thou  didst  write  a  tale 
That  woke  the  stifled  conscience,  and  drew  forth 
Indignant  tears;  and  pity  like  a  wave 
Swept  round  the  world,  and  in  its  trail 
At  last  came  justice,  and  the  South  and  North 
Saw  God  within  the  whirlwind  come  to  save. 


37 


LUCY  STONE 

When  twilight  falls  and  all  the  silver  grey 
Invites  to  musing,  then  I  ponder  long 
Upon  life's  power  and  meaning,  and  a  song 
Wells  from  the  heart,  grateful  that  such  as  they, 
Strong  men  and  women,  faithful  to  the  sway 
Of  hard,  insistent  service,  moved  along 
Our  foot-worn  paths,  ennobling  all  the  throng 
With  lofty  standards  lifted  to  the  day. 
In  that  high  company,  a  chosen  one 
Moved  on  serene  in  gracious  womanhood; 
Shriven  from  self,  she  had  the  seer's  gaze 
To  foresee  human  needs,  for  not  alone 
By  bread  a  race  may  live;  she  understood 
That  love  with  justice,  love  alone  outweighs. 


38 


JULIA  WARD  HOWE 

How  often,  when  she  entered,  did  we  rise 
And  stand  in  waiting  hundreds  till  she  passed 
Serenely  to  her  place,  from  whence  she  cast 
Such  gracious  looks  on  all  around,  from  eyes 
Undimmed  as  yet  by  age,  so  kind,  so  wise, 
That  awe  mixed  with  our  love,  and  when  at  last 
Her  low  voice  broke  the  silence,   hearts  beat 

fast, 
Stirred  by  the  solemn  words  we  hoard  and  prize ! 
0  Sibyl-eyes !  0  eloquent  white  hair ! 
Ye  helped  the  burning  message  find  its  goal 
In  our  true  breasts ;  for  not  in  easeful  age 
Wast  thou  content  to  dwell ;  thy  brooding  care 
Yearned  over  all,  0  mother  of  the  soul 
That  thou  hast  wakened  to  its  heritage. 


39 


CHARLOTTE  BRONTE 

Thou,  Charlotte  Bronte,  art  more  real  to  me 
Than  half  the  Juno-women  that  I  meet ; 
Thy  slender  form  and  shy  looks  come  to  greet 
Still  once  again,  as  in  my  girlhood  free; 
I  seem  to  hear  thee  speak,  to  live  with  thee 
In  thy  life- warm  creations,  that  still  beat 
Even  as  with  thy  pulse;  and  at  thy  feet 
I  lay  this  leaf  plucked  from  the  laurel  tree. 
Thy  virile  Yorkshire  men  still  stride  the  moor, 
Or  play  the  wizard,  or  make  stormy  love; 
Thy  women,  made  of  fire  and  dew,  still  hold 
Their  wistful  charm;  however  bleak  and  poor 
Thy  moorland  home,  it  brought  us  wealth  above 
Thy  dreams,  dear  Charlotte,  or  the  miser's  gold. 


40 


EMILY  BRONTE 

O,  Spirit-maid,  life  ebbs  and  flows,  and  still 
The  wonder  lasts,  a  girFs  white  soul  could  know 
The  urge  of  headlong  passion,  and  the  woe, 
When  man's  fierce  heart  disdains  both  good  and 

ill; 
But  even  if  you  guessed  it  from  the  thrill 
Of  storied  page,  who  gave  you  power  to  throw 
Such  glamor  round  it,  that  our  hearts  beat  low, 
Almost  in  fear,  and  all  against  our  will? 
The  moors  long  waited  for  your  footstep  light, 
That  hardly  crushed  the  heather  where  it  fell ; 
They  missed  the  vision  of  sweet  maiden  grace, 
Rose-like,  transparent  cheek,  and  figure  slight; 
You  came  no  more  your  eerie  dreams  to  tell. 
For  Genius  drew  you  to  her  own  embrace. 


41 


CONSTANCE  FENIMORE  WOOLSON 

In  some  green  field  of  asphodel, 
Beside  a  blue  and  placid  stream, 
Thou  liest  asleep,  in  lovely  dream 
Of  music  from  some  far-off  bell. 

When  thou  shalt  waken  from  that  sleep, 
In  the  bright  presence  at  thy  side, 
Behold  an  angel,  come  to  guide 
And  lead  thee  up  a  flowery  steep. 

Oh,  he  shall  discourse  tenderly, 
And  shed  a  glory  in  his  glance. 
And  thou  shalt  listen  in  a  trance, 
As  we  have  listened  unto  thee. 

Then  he  shall  tell  of  mystic  things. 
While  more  majestic  grows  his  face. 
Till  soaring  into  light  and  space. 
He  bears  thee  on  with  shining  wings. 


42 


TO  LADY  GREGORY 

Artist !  no  need  hast  thou  of  all  the  pride 
Of  storied  castles,  long-drawn  galleries, 
Hung  with  escutcheons,  showing  forth  the  rise 
Of  some  great  race  from  pictured  knights  that 

ride 
Forever  into  battle,  sword  on  side; 
Nor  yet  these  haughty  ladies,  from  whose  eyes 
The  light  yet  seems  to  sparkle,  while  their  guise 
Of  nymph  or  shepherdess  is  all  belied. 
No  gawds  like  these ;  a  cabin  poor  and  bare, 
A  table  set  with  delf ,  a  low  peat  fire, 
A  child,  a  vagrant  with  a  voice  of  gold, 
The  tragic  silence  of  a  steep,  worn  stair, 
A  folk-song  with  old  words  that  never  tire — 
Mid  these,  thy  flower  of  genius  doth  imfold. 


43 


THE  MADONNA  OF  THE  CHAIR 
To  A.  C.  F. 

Serene  young  mother,  with  thy  rosy  boy, 

Pressed  to  thy  breast!  thy  meekly  parted  hair, 

Thy  tranquil  eyes,  thy  look  of  softened  joy. 
Remind  me  of  that  Holy  Mother  fair. 

Thy  graceful  head  down-bending  to  the  child, 
In  eloquence  of  tenderness  and  care. 

Thy  lovely  level  brows,  thine  aspect  mild. 
Recall  the  dear  Madonna  of  the  Chair. 


44 


TO  M.  P.  W.  H. 


1913 


Within  the  measured  sonnet's  metred  round, 

Let  me  embalm  thy  memory  aright, 

Thy  classic  face,  thine  earnest  eyes  alight 

With  sympathy ;  the  zeal  that  never  found 

A  task  too  hard ;  thy  loyalty  as  sound 

As    tempered    steel;  thy   more    than    woman's 

might 
To  crush  thy  griefs  far  down  and  out  of  sight, 
That  thou  in  ministries  might  more  abound. 
What  though  to  thee  *twere  easier  to  lead 
Than  wait  to  follow?     When  so  plain  the  path 
Lay  through  the  golden  grain  of  some  wide  field 
Ripe  to  the  sickle,  thou  wert  glad  indeed 
To  lead  the  way ;  our  love  is  aftermath 
Of  thine  own  life,  the  later  harvest-yield. 


« 


TO  E.  M.  L. 

With  light  and  graceful  movements,  and  sweet 

eyes, 
And  hair  that  rippled  to  a  classic  coil, 
In  youth  thou  look*dst  a  being  that  might  foil 
The  deep  designs  that  Time  might  yet  devise; 
He  wore  thy  strength  with  every  test  that  tries, 
With  care,  with  grief,  with  ease,  with  earnest 

toil; 
But   that  staunch  woman-heart  he  could  not 

spoil : 
He  could  but  make  thee  yet  more  brave  and 

wise. 
Thy  buoyant  mien  hath  vanished  long  ago ; 
Pain  traces  a  light  network  on  thy  brow; 
Thy  beauty  is  but  shadow-like  and  faint. 
Yet,  though  the  waning  fires  of  life  bum  low. 
Still  to  thine  own,  guide  and  protectress,  thou! 
We  know  not  which  to  call  thee,  ''friend,'*  or 

*' saint." 


46 


COURAGE 


IN  MEMORIAM — MAVIS   H- 


O  Courage,  let  men  joy  in  thy  high  heart, 

That  scorns  at  craven  fear,  and  waves  a  hand 
Of  glad  compliance,  when  by  sea  or  land 

War  summons  them;  they  fear  no  dart 

Of  lightning  from  the  ships,  and  seek  their  part 
Vv^here  danger  is  the  surest ;  crave  command 
To  fill  some  gap,  and  like  a  wall  to  stand 

Facing  a  stormy  death,  and  so  depart. 

But  braver  still  than  these,  who  match  their 
powers 
Against  the  fire  and  steel,  when  Honor  calls 
So  loud  in  trumpet  tones,  are  those,  I  deem. 
That  years  cannot  defeat  with  Pain ;  in  hours 
Of  sullen  night,  no  gloom  or  doubt  appalls. 
They  smile  at  Death !  oh,  victory  supreme ! 


47 


A   GREETING   TO   BROWNING   LOVERS 

Lovers  of  Robert  Browning,  could  we  praise 
Our  Poet-Master  in  a  dreamy  verse, 
That  bom  and  steeped  in  music,  might  re- 
hearse 

His  mighty  genius,  building  phrase  on  phrase, 

He  scarce  would  thank  us ;  for  the  victor  bays 
Are  green  about  his  brow,  and  no  reverse 
Can  ever  dim  them:  fame  however  perverse, 

No  more  can  vex  him  with  her  long  delays. 

O,  let  us  feel  like  him  the  joy  of  life; 

The    throstle*s    singing   and    the    hawthome 

flower 
Cheered  his  whole  soul,  and  nothing  mean  or 

sad 

Made  him  despair  that  man  shall  rise  through 

strife; 
"God's  in  his  heaven!"  we  will  not  flinch  or 

cower. 
So  shall  we  make  the  Heart  of  Browning  glad. 


ELIZABETH    BARRETT    BROWNING 


Not  from  the  ''Portuguese, "  O  Lady,  nay, 

Despite  the  languorous  eyes,  the  oval  face. 

The  heavy  clustering  hair,  no  southern  race 

Bare  thee  upon  its  stem,  for  the  deep  play 

Of  all  thy  rhythmic  pulses  did  betray 

An  English-hearted  woman,  with  no  trace 

Of  Latin  blood;  yet  more  than  Latin  grace 

Breathed  in  thy  song,  winging  its  upward  way. 

But  English  ivies,  and  the  hollow  sound 

Of  waves  that  lash  the  cliffs  were  not  more  dear 

To  thee,  0  singer,  than  dark  olive  trees. 

Or  fair  Italian  cities,  clustering  round 

Blue   shimmering   bays   where   one   must   ever 

hear 
Deep  breathings  of  the  ocean  stretched  at  ease. 

II 

Though  grace  and  beauty  wove  for  thee  a  spell 
So  deep  and  constant,  yet  thou  couldst  not  rest 
4  49 


50  At  Vesper  Time 

In  their  enchantment,  for  within  thy  breast  . 
There  beat  so  high  a  heart  that  naught  befell 
Mankind,  in  palace  or  in  prison  cell. 
And  found  thee  passive ;  and  thine  interest 
Was  sometimes  passion ;  for  the  burden  pressed 
On  hapless  childhood  fell  on  thee  as  well. 
But  not  in  those  weak  tears  that  women  shed 
Didst  thou  show  pity;  no,  not  even  for  these, 
And  not  for  giant  wrongs  Italia  bore; 
But  thou  didst  fuse  thy  soul  in  words  that  sped, 
Fire-tipped  and  scathing,  o'er  a  waste  of  seas. 
To  stir  the  heart  of  England  to  its  core. 


ON   THE  BRONZE   CLASPED   HANDS  OF 

ROBERT    AND    ELIZABETH 

BARRETT  BROWNING 

O,  Poet-hands,  so  closely  clasping  there 

In  that  mute,  shining  bronze,  that  shall  outlast 

Great  centuries  to  be  and,  holding  fast, 

Reveal  to  stranger  eyes  a  love  more  fair. 

More  even-weighted  for  each  heart  to  share, 

Than  any  classic  poet  of  the  past 

Has  sung  to  us,  in  mood  however  vast, 

Teach  then,  as  now,  clasped  hands,  that  love  is 

prayer. 
And  when  this  bronze  in  farther  ages  still, 
Lies  ruined,  low,  shattered  in  golden  dust. 
Then  shall  the  love  it  storied  forth  so  long. 
Smiling  at  Death  and  Time,  move  to  fulfil 
Its  spacious  task,  moulding  in  joyous  trust 
Sublimer  purpose  in  sublimer  song. 


51 


SONNET  ON  BROWNING'S  MASTERPIECE 
"THE  RING  AND  THE  BOOK" 

O  Ring,  no  slender,  narrow  circlet  thou! 

Enwrought  thou  liest  firm  and  massive  there, 
Welded  of  virgin  gold ;  some  craftsman  rare 

Enriched  thee  thus,  mayhap  for  marriage  vow. 

Old  Yellow  Book,  the  centuries  allow 
A  thousand  readers,  and  but  one  aware 
Thou  hadst  a  soul;  when  in  that  Florence 
square 

*  The  wind  of  inspiration  swept  his  brow : 

Behold,  O  ye  the  Poet's  voice  awakes. 

Another  Ring,  from  gold  was  never  mined, 
To  guard  his  Singer's  "golden  verse,"   he  said; 

Another  Book,  which  tells  that  morning  breaks, 
With    Phosphor-star   of   Truth,   for   human- 
kind; 
This  Ring  and  Book,  forever  shall  be  wed. 

*  "  A  spirit  laughs  and  leaps  through  every  limb, 
And  lights  my  eye,  and  lifts  me  by  the  hair," 
52 


BROWNING  SAID  OF  "THE  RING  AND 
THE  BOOK:" 

"  It  lives,  if  precious  be  the  soul  of  man  to  man." 

O  thou  Great  Soul,  with  what  a  joyous  beat 
The  heart  still  throbs  at  thine  exultant  cry, 
For  thou  art  not  of  those  that  would  deny 
To  Genius,  even  thine  own,  the  largess  meet; 
It  was  not  thine  to  taste  the  lulling  sweet 
Of  early  praise ;  for  long  did  men  decry 
The  greatness  of  thy  powers,  but  for  reply. 
At  last.  Fame  cast  her  laurels  at  thy  feet. 
"If  precious  be  the  soul  of  man  to  man. 
It  lives**;  what  though  the  centuries  forget 
It's  crowding  details,  as  the  English  plod 
Forever  forward  in  Heaven's  unknown  plan: 
"It  lives";  its  truth  shall  be  immortal  yet, 
If  precious  be  the  soul  of  man  to  God, 


53 


THE  MAGDALEN 

He  sat  in  Simon's  house,  a  slighted  guest, 
No  kiss  upon  his  cheek,  no  ointment  brought 
To  soothe  the  weary  head,  heavy  with  thought, 
No  water  for  the  feet  so  soon  to  rest ; 
And  then  she  came,  the  Magdalen,  confessed 
A  sinner,  and  poured  out  the  spikenard,  bought 
At  so  great  price,  upon  his  feet,  and  caught 
Her   breath   in   sobs   that   shook   her   grateful 

breast. 
Then  to  the  cynic  Pharisee,  Christ  told, 
With  noble  gestures,  as  when  one  commands, 
The  story  of  the  debtors;  all  the  feast 
Delayed  to  hear  the  moving  tale  imfold; 
Proud  Simon  drooped  his  head  upon  his  hands, 
When  that  stained  woman  rose,  from  sin  released. 


54 


TO  A  WOMAN  SEEN  ON  THE  STREET 

O  thou  marred  face!  and  wast  thou  e'er 
Lighted  with  girlhood's  smile, 

Those  heavy-lidded  eyes,  once  fair, 
Before  they  knew  this  guile? 

What  can  we  say  to  thy  maimed  soul, 

O  wreck  of  sisterhood? 
Thy  scornful  smile  accepts  no  dole; 

Hate  is  thy  daily  food. 

We  dare  not  judge  thee,  piteous  one, 

We  women  safe  in  fold ; 
We  know  not  how  thy  tears  have  run, 

Prom  eyes  now  over-bold. 

We  only  know  thy  straying  feet 

Must  sometime  find  the  way. 
For  God  knows  nothing  of  defeat, 

In  all  that  seems  delay. 


55 


THE    WINGS    OF    NIGHT   ARE    SPREAD 

A  light  wind  stirs,  and  night  broods  o'er  the 

earth, 
That  seems  at  last  to  sink  to  sleep,  and  here, 
Sltimber  more  sweet  than  Hybla's  honey,  lays 
A  spell  on  all  my  dearest  and  they  dream. 
Forgetting  that  the  day  will  come  again ; 
Rest,  O  my  heart,  the  wings  of  night  are  spread. 

I  see  thee,  0  my  mother,  full  of  years, 
I  mark  the  chiselled  beauty  of  thy  face, 
The  silken  hair,  parted  like  silver  wings, 
On  the  low  brow  so  lined  with  grief  and  care. 
Thou  lookst  an  aged  Queen  lying  in  state, 
Rest  thee,  dear  Heart,  the  wings  of  night  are 
spread. 

Gently  I  ope  this  door,  lest  I  awake 
The  husband  and  the  father  from  his  rest ; 
Peaceful  his  brow,  his  stalwart  frame  relaxed, 
One  massive  hand  lies  nerveless  on  his  breast, 
The  hand  that  fends  between  the  world  and  us, 
Sleep,  0  BelovM,  thine  and  mine  sleep  too. 
56 


At  Vesper  Time  57 

And  at  the  children's  doors  I  linger  long, 
Ye  sleep  to-night  beneath  your  father's  roof; 
How  know  I  what  huge  distance  calls  you  forth 
Within  the  coming  years,  what  other  hearths 
Shall  win  you  from  us!     Ye  are  ours  to-night; 
Rest,  O  my  heart,  the  wings  of  night  are  spread. 

What  can  I  wish  thee  better,  dearest  ones, 
Than  balmy  sleep  after  the  eager  day; 
Within  my  heart  I  fold  ye  all,  and  now 
Mine  eyelids  droop,  my  pillow  waits  for  me. 
Sleep  calls   me,  too;  again.  Good-night,  Good- 
night; 
Rest,  O  my  heart,  the  wings  of  night  are  spread. 


IN  THE  EVENING  OF  LIFE 

Dearest,  not  far  before  us  lies 

The  parting  of  the  ways, 
As  one  by  one,  the  sunset  skies 

Close  on  these  golden  days. 

I  pray  that  I  may  be  the  one 

To  'scape  a  numbing  woe; 
To  leave  my  task,  though  crudely  done 

And  fold  my  hands  and  go. 

And  yet,  and  yet,  how  could  I  bear 

To  leave  thee  all  the  pain? 
Ah  me,  to  choose  I  may  not  dare, 

Though  choosing  is  but  vain. 

>|e  ♦  He  ♦  «  * 

Be  still,  my  heart!  for  he  is  called. 

The  tender  and  the  wise; 
Hush!  make  no  moan!  but  sit  enthralled; 

He  walks  in  Paradise. 


SEARCHING  FOR  GOD 

Illimitable  Water,  stretching  dim, 
To  that  far  line  where  sky  and  ocean  meet, 
With  tireless  waves  that  hurry  and  retreat, 
Dost  thou  know  God?     My  sorrow  seeketh  him. 

And  thou,  O  Mountain,  lifting  to  the  sky, 
Thy  silent  forests  in  the  amber  air, 
That  Springtime  twilight  sheds,  divinely  fair. 
Dost  thou  know  God?     Grief  longs  for  thy  reply. 

They  did  but  answer,  cautiously  and  slow, 
*'He  made  us,  Mortal,  therefore  go  in  peace; 
We  know  not  sorrow,  no,  nor  yet  surcease; 
Our  task,  to  watch  the  ages  come  and  go.*' 

But,  0  the  City  Streets!  the  Human  Tide! 
The  crowds  of  men  and  women,  proud  or  mean, 
Unlocked  the  sluices  of  a  faith  so  keen, 
I  knew  God  there,  I  felt  Him  at  my  side! 


59 


"THY  WILL  BE  DONE" 

O  grief -worn  Son  of  God,  upon  thy  head 
The  stars  of  night  a  pitying  watch  did  keep, 
While  near  at  hand,  but  sunk  in  selfish  sleep, 
Thy  friends  lay  prone,  unheeding  as  the  dead. 
But  when  the  yielding  will  within  thee  said: 
"Thy  will  be  done!*'  thou  heardst  the  sweep 
Of  angel  wings,  and  from  the  awful  steep 
Of  sheer  despair,  thy  feet  were  backward  led; 
So  wast  thou  comforted;  and  yet,  how  hard — 
Yea,  even  now,  though  thou  hast  shown  the 

way — 
To  conquer  grief,  for  us  to  smite  the  breast, 
And  trample  self  upon  the  barren  shard. 
And  cry,  "Thy  will  be  done!''  O  blessM  they 
Who  can  submit,  for  so  shall  they  find  rest. 


60 


THE  LYRE 

Now  all  the  more,  this  slender  lyre  of  mine, 
Of  so  few  strings  and  all  so  seldom  used. 
Its  tone  of  late  with  sorrow  interfused, 
Shall  still  ring  true  and  sing  of  things  divine ; 
Of  Truth  that  knows  no  change  and  no  decline, 
Of  Faith  that  cannot  falter  or  refuse, 
Of  Love  that  triumphs,  though  it  seem  to  lose, 
Of  Hope  that  faints  not  while  one  star  shall  shine. 
And  when  my  lyre  shall  sing  of  these  high  themes. 
My  fingers  shall  not  tremble  on  the  strings, 
For  I  have  naught  to  do  with  coward  fears ; 
Humility  makes  bold;  and  yet,  meseems. 
Although  my  life  is  fed  from  hidden  springs, 
I  must  have  time  to  staunch  these  blinding  tears. 


Ol 


THE  FATHER-HEART 
W.  L.  C. 

J845-1915 

His  was  the  Father-Heart  that  blessed  us  then, 
With  that  high  nature  of  abounding  cheer 
And  central  strength,  incapable  of  fear; 
Not  quailing  at  the  death  of  well-loved  men. 
But  living  in  a  trust  beyond  the  ken 
Even  of  his  own  poised  soul ;  and  holding  dear 
Each  man  and  woman ;  and  forever  clear 
Of  mean  suspicion  in  his  word  and  pen. 
But  we,  his  dearest,  cannot  well  extol — 
We  fear  to  wound  his  sacred  memory. 
With  lavish  words,  that  seek  to  phrase 
His  charity  and  nobleness  of  soul ; 
For  somehow,  still,  his  gentle  dignity, 
With  finger  on  his  lip,  forbids  our  praise. 


62 


MY  TASKS 

The  years  crowd  on  me,  and  the  well-loved  task 
Slips  from  my  hand,  no  longer  needing  me; 
No  longer  children,  leaning  on  my  knee, 
Tax  wisdom  with  the  questions  that  they  ask ; 
No  more  in  the  warm  sunshine  may  we  bask, 
And  talk  again  of  bird,  and  flower,  and  bee; 
Nor  read  the  poets,  nor  in  history 
See  kingdoms  crumbling,   when  the  great  un- 
mask. 
No  more  to  thee.  Beloved,  am  I  now. 
Thine  other  eyesight,  in  advancing  years, 
For  thou  hast  passed,  and  left  me  here  alone; 
But  I  am  needed  to  fulfil  a  vow 
The  spirit  makes,  that  though  Faith  yield  to 

tears, 
It  shall  not  waver,  or  be  overthrown. 


63 


THE  HOME 
Novembefy  IQ15 

The  home,  that  through  long  years  was  dear  to 

me, 
Still  lies  all  bathed  in  sunshine,  as  of  old; 
Yet  silence  makes  the  very  walls  seem  cold. 
That  once  responded  to  the  minstrelsy, 
Of  flute-like  voice  and  viol,  that  could  free 
The  spirit  from  its  cares;  O,  all  untold 
The  worth  of  olden  hours!  as  manifold 
In  gifts  as  fruit  upon  a  lavish  tree. 
The  father  and  the  son,  at  twilight  time, 
Sat  side  by  side  and  gravely  talked. 
Enwrapped  in  a  companionship  profound; 
And  then,  the  evening  lamp,  the  book  sublime, 
When    "gentle   Shakespeare   entered"  and  we 

walked 
With  Kings  and  Queens  upon  enchanted  ground. 


TRUTH 

And  what  is  Truth?     It  is  the  primal  word 
The  morning  stars  sang  in  the  heavenly  space, 
When  on  their  axes  rolled,   they  found    their 

place, 
As  the  vast  universe  in  order  stirred. 

Truth  is  the  naked  fact,  whispered  unheard, 
Or  cried  upon  the  housetop,  with  no  trace 
Of  e'er  so  slight  alloy,  even  for  grace ; 
The  martyrs  died  to  keep  it  all  unblurred. 

And  he  who  would  to  perfect  truth  attain, 
Must  be  as  single-hearted  as  a  child, 
Turning  aside  from  lure  of  privilege, 

Or  passionate  pursuit  of  any  gain ; 

Of  measured  golden  speech,  serene  and  mild, 

More  potent  than  the  sword  of  double-edge. 


65 


FAITH 

Faith  IS  the  strength  in  which  we  dare  to  say: 
O  bitter  Grief,  thou  shalt  not  break  my  heart, 
For  truly  I  am  stronger  than  thou  art ; 
Thou  canst  not  altogether  have  thy  way; 
For  if  I  cannot  praise,  I  yet  can  pray. 
And  this  will  pour  a  balm  upon  thy  smart. 
And  I  will  rule  thee,  since  we  may  not  part. 
And  thou  shalt  grow  more  tender,  day  by  day. 

Faith  is  the  strength  in  which  men  dare  to  die. 
Walking  the  fiery  path  the  martyrs  trod, 
Seeking  with  joy  their  uttermost  to  give. 
In  a  blind  trust,  nor  ever  asking  why; 
But  unto  us  give  greater  strength,  O  God! 
Give  us  the  strength  by  which  we  dare  to  live. 


LOVE 

Although  I  seek  unto  the  farthest  line, 

Where  thought   and  speech  may  mingle,  for  a 

word 
As  musical  as  those  the  forest  heard, 
When  Orpheus  smote  his  silver  lyre  divine, 
The  search  is  vain;  Love's  essence  seems  too  fine 
To  prison  in  the  bars  of  speech;  unheard 
Its   footfall   light;  oft-times   the   heart    strings 

stirred 
As  by  a  harper's  hand,  it's  only  sign. 
And  yet,  Love's  music  is  the  common  tongue 
That  men  and  angels  speak;  the  simplest  word 
Befits  it  best,  all  chosen  speech  above: 
Say,  therefore,  "  Love  is  life  " ;  it  breathes  among 
Immortal  heights,  and  there  it  is  averred, 
By  the  most  holy  Saints,  that  God  is  love. 


67 


HOPE 

O  sovereign  Hope,  not  as  we  pictured  thee, 

A  woman-shape,  ethereally  slight, 

With  wide  eyes,  beaming  with  a  steady  light, 

Up-pointing  hands,  and  tresses  floating  free — 

Oh,  no,  not  so  thou  seemest  now  to  be; 

A  strong  man-angel,  thou,  with  looks  of  might. 

A  star  upon  thy  front,  wings  made  for  flight 

Into  high  Heaven,  yet  leaning  unto  me — 

And  in  thy  clasp,  no  emblem  of  thy  power, 

No  scroll  with  promise  of  a  future  good. 

That  Life,  some  dream-like,  far-off  day,   may 

give; 
But,  parting  with  thine  hands,  from  hour  to 

hour. 
The  saving  manna  of  a  daily  food — 
The  bread  by  which,  indeed,  our  souls  may  live. 


68 


BEYOND  THE  VEIL 


RECOGNITION 


Oh,  then,  after  the  ^'Is  it  thou?"  **And  thou?" 
The  clasping  hands,  the  hush  and  eloquence 
Of  that  first  silence,  in  the  rapt  suspense! 
No  need  of  any  spoken  word  or  vow, 
Leaning  with  cheek  to  cheek,  and  brow  to  brow; 
Till  thou,  at  last,  "Before  thou  earnest  hence, 
How  fared  it  with  thee  in  that  world  of  sense? 
Tell  me;  thou  wilt  forget,  an  hour  from  now." 
Then  I,  "BelovM,  all  was  well,  although 
I  felt  an  ache  in  every  stretching  fields 
And  my  old  trick  of  laughter  was  forgot; 
All  was  not  gloom,  for  all  men  seemed  to  know 
And  love  thee ;  and  their  tearful  praise  did  3^ield 
Dew  to  my  heart — although  thou  heardst  it  not." 


69 


SORROW  ASLEEP 

Sleep,  Sorrow,  cradled  in  my  breast! 

Peace !  do  not  wake !  my  foot  is  light, 
And  careful  not  to  break  thy  rest ; 

My  woman's  hand  is  fine  and  slight, 
And  it  shall  lie  above  thy  nest, 

And  brood  and  hush  thee  in  the  night. 
Sleep,  Sorrow,  cradled  in  my  breast! 


70 


THOU  KNOWEST 

''Thou   knowest":  this   is   sometimes    all    our 

prayer; 
Thou  knowest:  let  us  leave  with  Thee  our  care; 
Thou  knowest:  all  the  bitterness  of  grief; 
Thou  knowest:  the  deep  calm  of  Thy  relief. 


COMRADES 

Sometime,  I  know  this  heart-deep  verse  I  writ 
To  share  mine  own,  without  a  thought  of  fear. 
Will    touch    some    unknown  woman-soul   and 

knit 
Her  heart  to  mine,  as  to  a  comrade  dear. 


72 


IN  THE  TROLLEY  CAR 

The  swart  Italian  in  the  trolley  car, 

Hoarded  his  children  in  his  arms  and  breast; 

The  mother,  all  unheeding,  sat  afar, 

Her  splendid  eyes  were  vague,  her  lips  com- 
pressed. 

One  Raphael-boy  slipped  from  his  father^s  knee, 
Climbed  to  her  side,  and  gently  stroked  her 
cheek. 

She  turned  away,  and  would  not  hear  his  plea. 
She  turned  away,  and  would  not  even  speak. 

With  trembling  lips  the  child  crept  back  again 
To  the  warm  shelter  of  his  father's  breast ; 

We  looked  indignant  pity,  for  till  then 

We  thought  that  mother-love  bore  every  test. 

We  rose  to  go,  the  father-mother  said, 

In  deep,  low  tones,   ''Don*  t*inka  hard,  you 
bet 
The  younges'  was  too-seeck,  and  he  is  dead. 
She  will  be  alia  right,  when  she  forget.** 
73 


74  At  Vesper  Time 

When  she  forgets!    *'Great-Heart/*  hold  closer 
yet 
Thy  precious  brood  and  let  it  feel  no  lack! 
Until  her  soul  shall  wake,  but  not  forget, 

When  the  warm  tides  of  love  come  surging 
back. 


IN  A  MUSIC  HALL 

Let  us  speak  low,  this  place  is  dedicate 

To  thee,  Euterp^,  goddess  of  the  lyre, 

Thou  that  canst  wake  from  dreams,  and  urge 

with  fire. 
The  drooping  soul,  to  strive  anew  with  fate. 

Ah,  sweet  Euterpe,  soften  thou  the  pain 
Of  bitter  losses,  and  of  brooding  care; 
Then  fling  a  joyous  strain  upon  the  air. 

And  youthful  hearts  shall  dance  to  thy  refrain. 


75 


MOUNT  VICTORIA  AT  SUNRISE 

LAKE   LOUISE,   ALBERTA 

Victoria,  Queen  Mountain !  all  night  long 
The  stars  have  looked  upon  thy  state,  and  seen 
Thy  pure  white  mantle  folded  on  thy  breast, 
And  thy  proud  head  lifting  its  snowy  crown 
Into  the  steel-cold  heaven,  as  Sovereign  there. 
But  lo !  the  starlight  pales !     Dawn  cometh  now  1 
A  rosy  veil  spreads  over  thy  white  robes; 
Again  the  sun  begins  his  age-long  suit. 
And  claims  thy  crown;  but  oh,  how  virginal 
Art  thou,  O  most  austere,  yet  lovely  one ! 
Thou  wilt  not  own  him  Lord,  Empress  of  Snows ! 
Thou  art  not  lonely,  no;  thy  sisters  twain, 
Deep-bosomed  mountains,  wait  on  either  hand. 
To  do  thee  homage  as  the  fairest  one — 
Dense-wooded  at  the  base,  their  sunny  slopes 
Shimmer  with  velvet  grass,  although  so  stern 

Their  awful  foreheads. 
The  wondrous  crystal  lake,  lies  at  thy  feet, 
A  liquid  emerald,  where  thou  and  thine 
May  see  the  pictured  image  of  thy  loveliness. 
76 


At  Vesper  Time  77 

A  light  wind  whispers,  and  a  deeper  green 
Seems  poured  upon  the  waters,  pool  on  pool; 
It  breathes  more  freshly,  and  the  crested  waves 
Hurry  upon  the  shore  with  eager  sounds — 
But  thou,  Sublime  Victoria,  keep'st  thy  state 
In  an  unchanging  silence,  save  for  that 
Low,  mellow  thunder  of  the  avalanche. 


WASHINGTON  UNIVERSITY  AT  SUNSET 

St,  Louis y  October,  IQ14 

Not  Oxford's  "dreaming  spires/'  nor  any  pile 
Where  learning  holds  her  treasures  to  her  breast, 
Excels  thy  grandeur,  when  the  lavish  West 
Pours  forth  her  crimson  billows  mile  on  mile. 
O  sunset  glory!  linger  yet  awhile, 
And  drench  with  color  the  long  walls,  and  crest 
The  castellated  towers  with  fire,  and  rest, 
Ere  night  shall  lead  thee  down  her  long  defile. 
Queen  Mother! — so  shall  thy  children  call  thee — 
Sitting  in  state  upon  thy  wind-swept  hill, 
Aware  of  waking  fame,  abide  and  grow; 
Beckon  thine  own,  and  gather  at  thy  knee 
New  generations,  steadfast  to  fulfil 
Thy  lofty  hopes,  while  sunsets  come  and  go. 


AUTUMN  TWILIGHT 

Twilight  falls  soft  upon  the  village  street ; 

The  amber  in  the  west,  pales  into  grey; 

The  hollow  wind  that  whirled  the  leaves  all  day, 

Sank  with  the  dying  sun,  and  its  retreat, 

Is  followed  by  a  quiet  as  complete. 

As  in  some  minster  where  men  come  to  pray, 

For  not  one  passer  walks  upon  the  way, 

Worn  by  the  long  slow  years  and  many  feet. 

Brief  silence!  for  ye  shall  behold  them  now, 

The  men  that  labor,  coming  from  afar, 

Stooping,  thick-set  and  strong;  and  their  slow 

pace, 
Tells  that  their  strength  is  spent  at  forge  and 

plough; 
One  sees,  from  his  low  doorway,  like  a  star, 
A  light  flash  out,  above  a  welcoming  face. 


LATE  AUTUMN 

Meadows,  deep-billowed  with  dun  waving  grass, 
Stretch  to  dun  woods,  where  the  white  birches 

lift 
Imploring  arms,  and  round  their  knees,  a  drift 
Of  tangled  bronze,  fills  up  the  narrow  pass; 
And  still  beyond,  dun  fields,  with  trees  a  mass 
Of  brown  and  deadened  leaves;  but  through  a 

rift, 
Now  shines  an  afterglow,  that  seems  a  gift 
Of  beauty  thrown  away  on  this  morass. 
But  see!  in  that  far  orchard's  lingering  green, 
Alhtunan  touch,  that  makes  the  eyes  o'erflow; 
What  patient  toil  lavished  on  those  young  trees 
By  hardened  hands,  and  to  what  end  is  seen: 
The  little  home,  its  windows  now  aglow. 
Made  all  that  labor  sweeter  far  than  ease. 


80 


THE  HATE  OF  HATE 

Brave  English,  do  ye  not  remember  well 
That  aged  Singer,  whom  we  count  so  great, 
Chanted  the   ''scorn  of  scorn,''   the   ''hate  of 

hate," 
Though  this  stem  time,  he  could  not  then  fore- 
tell? 
Let  "hate  of  hate,**  be  as  a  warning  bell, 
Sounding  till  the  vast  tumult  shall  abate; 
If  it  be  true  we  half  command  our  fate. 
And  half  deserve,  O  Brothers,  choose  not  hell. 
The  "hate  of  hate,**  high  words  for  him  who 

dares. 
Huddled  in  the  deep  trenches,  wet  and  cold. 
Poising  his  gun  upon  the  clayey  sod. 
And  blenching  not,  when  the  grim  shell  outflares; 
He  grips  his  task — sheer  duty  keeps  him  bold — 
He  dares  not  hatCy  there  in  the  sight  of  God  1 

6 


CALL  ME  NOT  YET 

Call  me  not  yet,  from  this  Thy  wayward  world. 

Not  that  I  fear  to  leave  the  company 

Of  mountain  heights,  nor  the  serenity 

Of  new- waked  morning,  with  her  dews  impearled. 

Or  fleets  of  homing  ships,  with  sails  unfurled, 

Or  present  friends,  or  those  of  memory. 

Or  dearest  kin,  or  poignant  harmony; 

Call  me  not  yet  from  out  Thy  wayward  world. 

Call  me  not  hence,  until  the  warring  hosts 

Are  hushed  to  peace;  until  the  costly  flesh, 

Shaped  in  the  womb  of  woman,  is  not  cast 

As  waste  upon  a  field  of  crowding  ghosts; 

Ah  God!  the  charge  is  on,  and  men  enmesh. 

And  crush,  and  shatter,  and  the  hell-fires  blast! 


%2 


"ONLY  THE  BEST  OF  LIFE" 

To  G.  C.  H. 

1851-1910 

My  Brother,  dost  thou  turn  on  that  far  shore, 
Gazing  as  out  to  sea,  back  to  our  earth, 
And  note  the  mad  confusion,  and  the  dearth 
That  straitens  nations;  and  heard'st  thou  the 

roar 
Of  mighty  shells,  that  mowed  down  men,  and 
tore 
The  front  of  Rheims,  and  crumpled  age  and 

birth. 
Into  the  clay?  What  then  were  Heaven  worth ! 
Thy  blessedness  were  marred  forevermore. 
Ah  no,  no  murmur  of  this  Titan-strife, 

Shall  mar  thy  peace;  thy  memory,  perhaps, 
Records  no  pain,  and  only  conscious  seems 
Of  noble  friendships,  and  the  best  of  life. 

Trust,  love,  warm-hearted  laughter,  and  the 
lapse 
Of  fruitful  years,  all-golden,  as  in  dreams. 


fi3 


'THE  LUSITANIA" 


Go  forth,  O  noble  Ship,  and  bear  along 
A  little  world,  hidden  in  thy  deep  breast. 
Of  men  and  women,  babes  to  bosom  pressed, 
And  children  singing  stray  notes  of  a  song; 
For  there  are  statesmen  in  that  varied  throng, 
Writers  and  artists  following  their  behest, 
And  there  are  lovers  at  life*s  topmost  crest, 
And  many  bronzed  sailors,  tall  and  strong. 
Our  blessing  on  thee,  0  majestic  Ship ! 
Take  all  these  precious  human  lives  to  port. 
For  what  are  black  and  sudden  storms  to  thee  ? 
Thou  wilt  but  smile,  as  at  their  childish  sport. 
So  safe,  so  strong,  thou  feelst  thyself  to  be. 


II 


O  Ship,  what  aileth  thee?  What  giant  shock 
Hath  made  thee  quiver,  and  thy  funnels  veer 
From  their  proud  lines,  to  dip  as  if  in  fear? 

84 


At  Vesper  Time  85 

And  why  do  men  pour  forth,  and  call,  and  knock 
At  every  door,  and  loose  the  boats,  and  block 
The  way  of  all  return,  and  tie  the  gear 
Of  life-belts  onto  others,  careless  here 
Of  their  own  lives,  these  men  of  hero-stock? 
And  mothers  clasp  their  babies  in  their  arms. 
While  wide-eyed  children  cling  about  their  knees. 
No  man  or  woman  quails;  fear  has  no  room; 
They  are  beyond  the  reach  of  all  alarms; 
The  mighty  ship  is  staggering  in  the  seas. 
And  with  a  roaring  plunge  goes  to  her  doom. 


Ill 


Farewell !  farewell !  deep  ocean's  oozy  floor 
Must  pillow  every  head,  for  there  they  lie. 
Done  to  their  death;  and  yet,  they  cannot  die — 
In  spite  of  surge,  and  all  the  deep  uproar 
Of  sullen  billows,  they  have  reached  the  shore 
Of  all  true  hearts :  we  seem  to  hear  them  cry : 
**  Remember,  oh  remember,  from  the  Sky 
Our  vengeance  cometh;  weep  for  us  no  more.' 
And  now  we  sing  their  praise,  and  tell  how  Fame 
Had  loved  their  names,  could  they  with  us  have 

stayed 
A  few  more  years  to  make  some  rich  bequest — 


86  At  Vesper  Time 

Immortal  deeds,  or  words  set  all  aflame ; 

Done  to  their  death;  yet  they  had  sovereign 

aid, 
For  Thou,  Lord  God,  hast  drawn  them  to  thy 

breast. 


RUSSIA 

Colossal  Russia,  latest  of  the  lands 

To  spurn  the  yoke!    How  long  its  weight  has 

pressed 
Upon  thy  giant  shoulders !     Hast  thou  guessed 
Thy  strength  at  last,  and  broke  the  iron  bands 
The  monarchs  forged,   as  they  were  ropes  of 

sand? 
Remember  ye  that  Ivan !  guard  Thee,  lest 
His  brood  with  subtle  promise,  may  infest 
The  wavVing  soldiery  he  understands. 

0,  Russia  of  the  steppes  of  flowers  and  wheat, 
O  Russia  of  the  frozen  plains  and  seas, 
Russia  of  cities,  and  the  bloody  clod 
Of  those  Siberian  wastes;  may  no  defeat, 
Fall  on  thy  banners  rippling  in  the  breeze, 
That  blows  upon  Thee  from  the  hills  of  God! 


87 


AT  LAST 


At  last,  belovM  Country,  oh,  at  last, 

Thy  grave  words  flouted,  now  gird  on  thy 

sword! 
Else  thou  should'st  seem  but  vassal  to  that 
lord 
That  strangles  Belgium,  and  holds  her  fast, 
That  crushes  Serbia,  although  aghast. 

The  world  cries  out :  * '  No  tyrant  reigns  afford 
A  tale  of  such  black  wrongs ;  no  blood  out- 
poured. 
Cries  out  so  loud  to  Heaven  from  the  past!** 

Columbia,  0  BelovM,  0  sublime. 

Colossal  in  thy  patience  as  thy  strength. 
Thou  canst  endure  no  more ;  what,  is  the  sea, 

The  highway  of  the  nations  through  all  time, 
Forbidden  thee,  except  the  tether-length 
The  haughty  war-lord  now  metes  out  to  thee  I 

83 


At  Vesper  Time  89 

II 

Our  Country,  0  Columbia,  how  grand 
Thy  woman-stature,  how  magnificent 
Thy  crown  of  throbbing  stars,  how  eloquent 

Thy  speech,  that  even  aliens  understand ! 

For  thou  dost  stoop  and  take  them  by  the  hand, 
Thy  foster-children,  for  thy  care  is  spent 
Upon  us  all;  and  we  are  brothers  blent 

In  one  obedience,  once  thou  shalt  command. 

Goddess  and  Mother!  call  unto  us  now, 
And  we  will  answer  with  a  mighty  cry, 
From  mountain  unto  mountain,  sea  to  sea; 

Send  thy  ships  forth,  thy  hand  upon  each  prow! 

We  are  thy  sons,  proud  so  to  live  or  die. 

On  some  far  field,  as  not  unworthy  Thee. 


ivil9r?89     0)^9 
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